Unsent
by Romanec
Summary: Post XFC. Drabble. The night before Christmas, and a ruined Erik writes a letter to Charles he doesn't send. Charles reads it anyway. Not that is solves anything.


_**Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men. Marvel does.**_

**A/N: Writer's Block buster for the "post anything you write" challenge. Merry Christmas Eve/Happy Hanukkah/Merry Kwanza/I missed something.**

**I tried to write you fluff. Don't even ask me what this is.**

**(and yes, Erik – Jewish. Does not celebrate Christmas. But Charles has a love for it that he spoke about often to Erik, and therefore Erik loves that Charles loves it and hates him all the more for it).**

**Rating: K+. **

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><p><em>Unsent<em>

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><p>It is the night before Christmas, and Magneto sleeps, an uncomfortable ball wrapped tightly in uncomfortable sheets on a mattress of bricks, and does not see the teleporter uncharacteristically inch into his room, towards the desk his unsent letter still lays on, laid out and spread for the world to take.<p>

_My Dearest Charles,_

_It's snowing outside today. The first snow of our winter season, despite that it is now the eve of your Christmas and well past it's expected time. There's not much – enough to pepper the grass and soak the sidewalks, to become slush in the mud – enough to be ugly, instead of what you had described as would be beautiful. _

_Look at that. Two lines in, and I've already managed to become snide. As though there is anything I have the right to accuse you of. _

_And that is yet another subject I dare not broach for this letter. My apologies. _

_I wish that I could see that snow you spoke of, on our first night in the mansion. "Spinning showers of magical dust", I believe you called it – delightful, promising, **comforting**. A reminder that the world is not such a horrible place; that rage and death and pain doesn't have to be everything. That is what you said. I…have always wondered how you could possibly even know that? How you would know anything about the anger that makes you want to destroy everything you touch, the pain that makes it impossible to breathe, the death that never stops haunting you. You, who had never had to stare your tormentor down and want nothing more than to rip him apart from the inside, who never knew a harsh touch or hunger or a night's sleep without **your mother in the next room** –_

_It seems that I am incapable of being civil towards you, old friend. And I promise it – this – anger, blame ... is not the intention of my writing. Charles. I blame you for nothing. I hate you for nothing. _

_All I long for is the snow of your Christmas, the sight of it spinning. The children downstairs, laughing around whatever tree I'm sure you've managed to scrounge up. The feel of you, against me again, just sitting. To feel you once more. To be with you, as we were. We were only two months away, only two months. And I would give anything to take it back, to find someway to fix this. To stop it…_

_Sentimental of me, is it not? I almost think you would be proud. But perhaps it is the alcohol. I said I wouldn't speak of it._

_God help me, I will not send this to you. Christmas. I do not even celebrate, but … God help you, us all, Charles._

_Alles ist gut, mein liebling. Alles ist gut, mein Charles. Alles ist gut, I hate you. I will burn this world for you._

_Merry Christmas,_

_Erik _

It is the night before Christmas, and Erik Lehnsherr sleeps, and does not see the teleporter look up from the letter, eyes glazed and unfocused, or feel his fingers, disturbingly gentle, filter through his hair, uncovered in slumber.

Does not hear the soft, anguished whisper, _"Erik. Oh my friend, peace, I beg of you. Alles ist gut.",_ or notice when Azazel's eyes go violently clear even as his own confusion sets in and his hand snaps away.

He sleeps, unaware.

It is the night before Christmas, and Erik sleeps, but Charles Xavier is suddenly very much awake, pale fingers finding purchase in starch white hospital sheets. His legs do not move – cannot move, will not move – but his arms dart about to grasp what is not there.

Tears in his eyes, two months tied down and alone, and he looks out the window.

To the snow swirling to the ground.

It is the night before Christmas, and Erik sleeps, but Charles is awake, and the world is still as broken as before.

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><p><strong>AN:**

Google translate, I loathe you so hard. Someone please correct my German. x.x

Let me know what you thought? D:


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